July 11, 2009
A brief strip club adventure
“So what do you want to do tonight?” asked my host in Montreal, an acquaintance I shared common friends with but was meeting for the first time.
I was a bit hesitant to respond since I didn’t know the guy that well. Till now, however, he had been both kind and great fun, so I decided to say it.
“Well, I hear the strip clubs in Montreal are quite famous. Since I have never been to one, I’d like to visit.”
“Haha. Oh, yea, the strip clubs. Every tourist likes to go. Sure, we can go there. It’s a weekday though, so the crowd’ll be bad and the girls not the best.”
“That’s fine,” I responded. “I’ll take what I can get,” I thought. Being an excitable tourist, I was in no position to have everything perfect.
I had done my background research, and knew which strip clubs were famous in the city. We decided we would go to something called Club Super Sexe – it was as ridiculously delicious as its name suggests.
And so we entered the aforementioned establishment. It was a weekday so, naturally, the crowd was thin and the atmosphere wasn’t as crackling as I had hoped for. But since it was my first time, I was content. They offered us a seat next to the stage, but we refused it, keeping in mind that we’d have to tip higher, much higher, for that. We instead took a table with a reasonably good view and plopped down. We began observing the show. It was strictly so-so. I could not help but notice that the girls were not putting in their one hundred percent. I was not impressed; “what the fuck?” I thought, “aren’t they supposed to be professionals and putting in their best effort? Why are they performing on stage in such a dull manner when they should be cavorting about?” Not a good first impression, no doubt.
“Off day,” commented my friend, as if reading my mind. Clearly he knew his strip clubs. And my thoughts began to drift. Instead of focusing on the gyrating woman on stage, the intellectual in me started thinking about unnecessary and irrelevant things: why is she here, what made her do this, did she not have an alternative, why is she not into this, would she rather be somewhere else, what is her life story, who is she? Etcetera.
Normally men do not think like that in strip clubs. And yet, here I was, focusing beyond her dancing and her antics on the pole and her palpable nakedness and imagining her as a character in a novel; I could not help think about her beyond her obvious and blatant attempts at titillating her tipping patrons. Was she a student? How much student debt did she have? Which college did she go? Was she supporting her family? Clearly, she’s not in Pakistan where she has to get a younger sister married off. If not, then what? Is this good money? Good enough to support her loved ones? Or is she here because she actually likes it? If so, why does she like it? Is it the excitement and the thrill? Is it the high of performing in front of patrons and baring it all? Or is she an exhibitionist? All I wanted to do was get inside her head.
“Sir, you should definitely get a lap dance. You should not leave without one,” commented my friend.
“Hehe. I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s see how the evening progresses.” I really did not want to admit to him, a relatively new acquaintance, that beautiful women intimidate me, especially those with almost no clothes on.
Turns out, the evening didn’t have to progress much. Soon, a girl came over to our table, crouched on the ground next to me, and began having a conversation. She asked me my name. I was not going to indulge in a trivial conversation. One definitely does not come to a strip club to do that – unless, of course, one is old, or has a massively broken heart, or is just a plain sad fuck of a person. So, putting aside any pretenses of civility, I asked her about a lap dance. She was game (obviously, duh, that was her job) and gestured that I follow her upstairs. Yes, upstairs. Just like in the movies. Private room and all that. Yay!
And so we ended up in something that would qualify as a booth. Not the most private, but nothing shabby either. The sofa was comfortable, and there was a curtain hiding us from the outside world. “So, it’s fifteen dollars for a song, or seventy-five for twenty minutes,” she informed me in a rather business-like tone. I did a quick calculation in my head: one song is normally 4-5 minutes, so if I take two or three songs that’s about fifteen minutes and so about thirty to forty-five dollars. Hmm, I should just take the seventy-five dollar set and enjoy the whole twenty minutes or so. Oh, fuck, I only have fifty in my wallet. Surely, she will not accept a credit card. Oh well, decision made. “I will take two songs.” So, that’s thirty dollars, and then some drinks or tip and all that, and I should barely scrape through. Good. Let’s begin.
And here she cheated me. Bitch. There was a song playing (some random hip-hop song that I cannot identify right now, probably because I, in general, have little idea about hip-hop songs that are popular. In fact, I cannot even tell apart a hip-hop song from a rap song from a blues song from a pop song from a rock song. The perils of growing up on Bollywood and Pakistani pop and nothing Western except a solitary Billie Jean by the now-dead (may he rest in peace, that freak) MJ.) and she goes, “so I am going to start now. This is your first song.”
I protested in my head: “Woah, what the fuck, woman, you can’t start in the middle of a song! That’s not fair. You’re charging me so much for one song so at least give me a full one.” Of course, that was in my head. My body was too excited. “Okay,” I said out loud. And as I got comfortable on the sofa, she, well, proceeded to begin her lap dance.
After about two minutes of intense grinding against me, she noticed my hands were waving about. “You can touch, you know,” she pointed out. “Oh, can I?” I responded. Hehe. Clearly, I had heard otherwise. (Apparently it’s only in Montreal where you can touch a stripper just by paying a $5-10 cover charge at the entrance. Bless the city.) And so, I began touching, my hands wandering around her upper body like a naughty little reptile.
After a few minutes, I thought I should clarify. “Where exactly can I touch, ma’am?” I enquired. “Everywhere except down there,” was her response. “Ok.” Bummer. And so my hands started wandering even more and things started picking up pace and I started getting excited. “Is there anything else I can do besides touching,” I blurted out. Clearly my horniness was beginning to come into the equation. “Haha,” she laughed her big Eastern European laugh. “No, just touching.” “Gotcha, ma’am,” I told myself.
Soon, however, it was over. The two songs finished, and she promptly got off me. I was left thinking, “what the fuck.” I proceeded to give her the cash, including a reasonable tip, and walked downstairs to join my friend. He was sitting there feeling quite bored, a been-there-done-that expression on his face. “So, sir, enjoyed yourself?” he inquired. “Uhh, well, so-so,” I responded. It was true, really. The lap dance was nothing earth-shattering. The girl was strictly average, and her performance ordinary. (I had seen better on video!) And the only reason I felt the amount of horniness that I did was because of my natural proclivity, as a man, towards such occurrences.
I almost felt sorry for her. She was quite attractive, (oh, I don’t think I mentioned this before – she was tall, slim and blond, thus the Eastern European label I used earlier) but was quite young, and not very experienced I would assume. She was probably one of those student types who was here to earn enough to pay the exorbitant tuition. I obviously was in no position to enquire about her motivation or background, considering that the booth where she was grinding into me was not the most appropriate location for such a meaningful conversation.
And so, having had my lap dance, and seen a strip club up close and personal, I decided to leave. There was nothing here, after all, which I was finding terribly exciting. And that was the end of that. My trip to Montreal was finally complete.
I was a bit hesitant to respond since I didn’t know the guy that well. Till now, however, he had been both kind and great fun, so I decided to say it.
“Well, I hear the strip clubs in Montreal are quite famous. Since I have never been to one, I’d like to visit.”
“Haha. Oh, yea, the strip clubs. Every tourist likes to go. Sure, we can go there. It’s a weekday though, so the crowd’ll be bad and the girls not the best.”
“That’s fine,” I responded. “I’ll take what I can get,” I thought. Being an excitable tourist, I was in no position to have everything perfect.
I had done my background research, and knew which strip clubs were famous in the city. We decided we would go to something called Club Super Sexe – it was as ridiculously delicious as its name suggests.
And so we entered the aforementioned establishment. It was a weekday so, naturally, the crowd was thin and the atmosphere wasn’t as crackling as I had hoped for. But since it was my first time, I was content. They offered us a seat next to the stage, but we refused it, keeping in mind that we’d have to tip higher, much higher, for that. We instead took a table with a reasonably good view and plopped down. We began observing the show. It was strictly so-so. I could not help but notice that the girls were not putting in their one hundred percent. I was not impressed; “what the fuck?” I thought, “aren’t they supposed to be professionals and putting in their best effort? Why are they performing on stage in such a dull manner when they should be cavorting about?” Not a good first impression, no doubt.
“Off day,” commented my friend, as if reading my mind. Clearly he knew his strip clubs. And my thoughts began to drift. Instead of focusing on the gyrating woman on stage, the intellectual in me started thinking about unnecessary and irrelevant things: why is she here, what made her do this, did she not have an alternative, why is she not into this, would she rather be somewhere else, what is her life story, who is she? Etcetera.
Normally men do not think like that in strip clubs. And yet, here I was, focusing beyond her dancing and her antics on the pole and her palpable nakedness and imagining her as a character in a novel; I could not help think about her beyond her obvious and blatant attempts at titillating her tipping patrons. Was she a student? How much student debt did she have? Which college did she go? Was she supporting her family? Clearly, she’s not in Pakistan where she has to get a younger sister married off. If not, then what? Is this good money? Good enough to support her loved ones? Or is she here because she actually likes it? If so, why does she like it? Is it the excitement and the thrill? Is it the high of performing in front of patrons and baring it all? Or is she an exhibitionist? All I wanted to do was get inside her head.
“Sir, you should definitely get a lap dance. You should not leave without one,” commented my friend.
“Hehe. I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s see how the evening progresses.” I really did not want to admit to him, a relatively new acquaintance, that beautiful women intimidate me, especially those with almost no clothes on.
Turns out, the evening didn’t have to progress much. Soon, a girl came over to our table, crouched on the ground next to me, and began having a conversation. She asked me my name. I was not going to indulge in a trivial conversation. One definitely does not come to a strip club to do that – unless, of course, one is old, or has a massively broken heart, or is just a plain sad fuck of a person. So, putting aside any pretenses of civility, I asked her about a lap dance. She was game (obviously, duh, that was her job) and gestured that I follow her upstairs. Yes, upstairs. Just like in the movies. Private room and all that. Yay!
And so we ended up in something that would qualify as a booth. Not the most private, but nothing shabby either. The sofa was comfortable, and there was a curtain hiding us from the outside world. “So, it’s fifteen dollars for a song, or seventy-five for twenty minutes,” she informed me in a rather business-like tone. I did a quick calculation in my head: one song is normally 4-5 minutes, so if I take two or three songs that’s about fifteen minutes and so about thirty to forty-five dollars. Hmm, I should just take the seventy-five dollar set and enjoy the whole twenty minutes or so. Oh, fuck, I only have fifty in my wallet. Surely, she will not accept a credit card. Oh well, decision made. “I will take two songs.” So, that’s thirty dollars, and then some drinks or tip and all that, and I should barely scrape through. Good. Let’s begin.
And here she cheated me. Bitch. There was a song playing (some random hip-hop song that I cannot identify right now, probably because I, in general, have little idea about hip-hop songs that are popular. In fact, I cannot even tell apart a hip-hop song from a rap song from a blues song from a pop song from a rock song. The perils of growing up on Bollywood and Pakistani pop and nothing Western except a solitary Billie Jean by the now-dead (may he rest in peace, that freak) MJ.) and she goes, “so I am going to start now. This is your first song.”
I protested in my head: “Woah, what the fuck, woman, you can’t start in the middle of a song! That’s not fair. You’re charging me so much for one song so at least give me a full one.” Of course, that was in my head. My body was too excited. “Okay,” I said out loud. And as I got comfortable on the sofa, she, well, proceeded to begin her lap dance.
After about two minutes of intense grinding against me, she noticed my hands were waving about. “You can touch, you know,” she pointed out. “Oh, can I?” I responded. Hehe. Clearly, I had heard otherwise. (Apparently it’s only in Montreal where you can touch a stripper just by paying a $5-10 cover charge at the entrance. Bless the city.) And so, I began touching, my hands wandering around her upper body like a naughty little reptile.
After a few minutes, I thought I should clarify. “Where exactly can I touch, ma’am?” I enquired. “Everywhere except down there,” was her response. “Ok.” Bummer. And so my hands started wandering even more and things started picking up pace and I started getting excited. “Is there anything else I can do besides touching,” I blurted out. Clearly my horniness was beginning to come into the equation. “Haha,” she laughed her big Eastern European laugh. “No, just touching.” “Gotcha, ma’am,” I told myself.
Soon, however, it was over. The two songs finished, and she promptly got off me. I was left thinking, “what the fuck.” I proceeded to give her the cash, including a reasonable tip, and walked downstairs to join my friend. He was sitting there feeling quite bored, a been-there-done-that expression on his face. “So, sir, enjoyed yourself?” he inquired. “Uhh, well, so-so,” I responded. It was true, really. The lap dance was nothing earth-shattering. The girl was strictly average, and her performance ordinary. (I had seen better on video!) And the only reason I felt the amount of horniness that I did was because of my natural proclivity, as a man, towards such occurrences.
I almost felt sorry for her. She was quite attractive, (oh, I don’t think I mentioned this before – she was tall, slim and blond, thus the Eastern European label I used earlier) but was quite young, and not very experienced I would assume. She was probably one of those student types who was here to earn enough to pay the exorbitant tuition. I obviously was in no position to enquire about her motivation or background, considering that the booth where she was grinding into me was not the most appropriate location for such a meaningful conversation.
And so, having had my lap dance, and seen a strip club up close and personal, I decided to leave. There was nothing here, after all, which I was finding terribly exciting. And that was the end of that. My trip to Montreal was finally complete.
July 8, 2009
A conversation on Facebook
Me and Mullah Roommate, my housemate for my first academic year here, used to have quite random conversations. As like random conversations between any other pair of men, the topics would vary considerably, ranging from the erotic appeal of women's forearms to the religious undertones in the fantabulous TV show "Battlestar Gallactica."
Our best conversations, however, were through Facebook comments. Usually, we would be sitting in our own rooms and talking to each other virtually.
Going through some old photos, I came across one such time. It was indeed a most fun evening. I share the entire conversation below, in all its inanity.
The context is a photo of mine he had tagged, in an album called "California." The photo was titled "Dinner with OCD roommate." (He likes to think I have obsessive compulsive disorder because I tell him how to put things in the kitchen.)
Me: technically, you are grammatically incorrect. you should say "OC flatmate" or "flatmate who has OCD." just wanted to point it out, you know. :)
And btw, how the fuck is this photo in an album called California, when I've never even been close to the place?
Him: Yes, but I love you so much, I can't have an album without you in it. Naw, I like to have the first and the last picture of a travel album be a home picture.
Me: oh, thats v cute. but why is the last picture of this album not of home then?
Him: Because there is another album in the works genius. This is just part 1
Also, much thanks for the grammatical input.
Me: well then it should be labelled "California Part I!" rather than "California!" And what's with the silly exclamation mark? How would you feel if someone wrote "Balochistan!"?
Him: I would think: "Holy @#$! Our army @#$#$ up again!"
Was the Mummy called The Mummy Part 1? Maybe I will call my second album The Return of California!
Me: the army is not the root cause of every problem in pakistan, you neo-marxist luminite fucktard.
Him: Says the Punjabi guy.
Yar mein bata raha hun, koi parhai nahee honee aaj. Let's watch Top Gun instead. Come out of your room.
Me: punjabis are not the root cause of every problem in pakistan, you mohajir-hugging karachiite.
yar im sorry i am about to upload an album of facebook. then i will watch two episodes of how i met your mother, and then go to sleep. i have to wake up early morning and learn about jihad. oh, oops, that sounds totally dangerous and reckless on facebook. let me rephrase: i have to take a class in harvard, the most well-respected educational institution, about the history of jihad (in whose final paper i will naturally espouse the idea that it is a dead and irrelevant concept and its supporters should be bombed out of their rustic caves)
Him: I will have you know I am a Punjabi and am hence unable to hug anything, courtesy my fat tond.
Re your jihad training: I sympathize with your stance. I too shall attend a class on Democratic Theory soon, at the same august institution where I shall without a doubt argue in favor of the most auspicious democratic polity that surpasses all others for the sole reason that it is Western. I too shall then proceed to advocate the bombing of any (possibly oil rich middle eastern persian) state that attempts to incorporate the medieval Islamic political system into it's every day life. Either the buggers are with us, or against us.
Me: acha dont go all intellectual on me. i hate smarty-pants. and you are a disgrace to all punjabis. you have no tond. you, on the contrary, like to jog and swim. eek!
Him: That is true. I shall withdraw myself from the generalized pool of fat Punjabis with tonds. *walks away into the sunset, sniffling*
End of conversation. Sigh. I miss him.
(This was such a fucking lazy thing to do, what I just did above. Basically just a shit poor copy-paste job. Just another way to procrastinate at my summer internship. :D)
